


Descato

by asuralucier



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Cleaning blood off someone you think is hot, Covertly checking someone out while they're bleeding profusely is a lovely adjacent tag, Crossover, Just leaving it here, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Snark, Winston the World's Worst Uncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: This was not what Q expected to be doing on his holiday.
Relationships: John Wick/Q
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65
Collections: Robot Rainbow 2020





	Descato

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



It was Winston’s idea that Q be stationed at MI6. From New York, his uncle had made all the necessary arrangements and Q was only incorporated into those plans at the very last minute. As in, a strange voice called him one morning and told him he had an interview at a very closed office in Westminster--so closed, that the place practically didn’t exist--in an hour’s time, and he’d better be dressed and ready within the hour. A car would be by to pick him up.

“This sounds familiar,” Q said, chewing. He liked to have his breakfast at nine on the dot. But just for kicks, since he was on holiday, he wasn’t wearing a tie.

“Well, we are _family_ , Q,” Winston reminded him, from probably New York. Q was about thirty seconds from finding out exactly where. “Aren’t we?”

Q was not his true name, of course, and Winston wasn’t his uncle’s real name either. The whole family played fast and loose with that sort of thing.

Q said, “I suppose.”

“Well, then there’s a car waiting downstairs for you.”

“I’m on holiday,” Q emphasized, and not for the first time, either. Winston hung up, and the tracker on Q's screen disappeared with seconds to spare.

Q wasn't great at using up his annual leave, but M insisted that even he had to learn about taking personal time. As usual, Q took the utmost care not to disclose his location, but as Winston was so astute and insistent on the fact that he _wasn’t government_ , Q was found out anyway.

After a few stops, the car dropped him off at yet another undisclosed address. Q tried to remember if he’d been here before, but soon he had other things to worry about. 

“Are you going to tell him?”

Things like whether or not this man was going to bleed to death, even if the man himself didn't look bothered in the slightest. Q glared at the long figure settled in the wet room, with his back--skin exposed, thanks to some variety of assault rifle that’d shredded what used to be a nice suit--against slightly damp tiles. In fact, the man looked quite comfortable being in pain, as if he was confident that he was going to survive no matter what.

They'd never met, but they'd both been here before.

“Tell who?”

“Winston.” The man hummed unhappily. He shifted closer so Q could apply more pressure on one of three gunshot wounds. Not for the first time, Q wondered why he was here. Winston probably wanted to call on someone with a more delicate hand, if the stories he told at Christmas were to be believed. More often than not, those things turned into a pissing competition.

“I don’t have a way to reach my uncle. But I’m working on it,” Q said; although as soon as he’d said it, he wished he hadn’t been so forthcoming. He had no idea why he did it, perhaps to offer the man some sense of camaraderie. “He calls when he needs something, and, well.”

Camaraderie appeared to have fallen wide of its mark, as the man now looked sorry for him. Q resisted the urge to dig the towel deeper into the wound to get him to look the exact opposite.

Q dug in the best he could in another way. “And anyway, he sent me here, Mr. Wick. He probably already knows what you’re up to. Or haven't been up to, whatever the case may be.” Q had his guesses, but for now, he'd keep them to himself.

John Wick was a clean name and applied neatly to the man in question like an adhesive. So clean that Q had a hard time believing it was real, so he simply didn’t. Underneath all that blood, hopefully not all of it his, John Wick was possibly a handsome man. Normally, Q might have paid more attention to such details.

Instead, Q had to tear his eyes away from John Wick’s attractive jawline--which he was only paying attention to with some gauze and iodine, because someone had scratched him there; an infection wouldn't do the man any favors, no other reason, of course--when a low telling rumble sounded from nearby.

“What’s that?” John asked.

“That--is why I’m here. Don’t move.” Q couldn’t help but sound a little smug. He reached to wipe his hands on a clean towel. Time to get up off the back foot.

While it was apparently on the top of somebody’s priorities to install a functional wet room in a not very good safe house, the safe house was screaming for other amenities. Like a kettle. Resigning himself to being without a cup of tea, Q got to work setting up a laptop on a wobbly table.

“You can use my thirty-eight that’s taped by the door,” said John.

Q looked, and indeed there was a thirty-eight taped by the door, along with a few other choice objects that were not thirty-eights. Q couldn’t fault John for wanting to be prepared. He turned his gaze back towards John, who seemed suddenly more awake. He seemed the sort of man who woke up at exactly the right time and maybe that was something that Q could appreciate about him, too.

“I can do more damage on my laptop than you can do in a year sitting in my pajamas and waiting for my Earl Grey.” Q shrugged. Still, the Yanks really had no concept of the light touch. “No, thank you.”

John didn't miss a beat. “Is that why you showed up in your pajamas, Q? Hoping to prove a point?”

Q looked down at himself and felt a bloom of color rush to his cheeks. He pulled his coat tighter around what was in fact his pyjamas, and thought about using his holiday as an excuse. 

But perhaps not. That would have been superfluous, and they both had work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> My dyslexia had me reading "Descato" as "Desacato" for the longest time. "Desacato" is the Spanish legal term for "contempt" or "willful disobedience of authority," which is lovely.


End file.
